Nothing profound sounds this polite and wiry.
No cures allowed;
They're all around everybody but nobody's telling
Could live off this stuff
Snort it when lost for words,
When feelings pour towards the exit forgetting
Resigned from upsetting only pretending to talk,
Our intentions are falling;
Lethargic from throats dry and sore
From too much nothing.
Resonant with withdrawn and clouded in cursing
Niggling smashed little grace in
The pretty face,
Hateful and spiteful,
Despite each early morning's new born lie smiling
Heart-breaking out from inside my
I'm, it's a? fine
Line between the hoops hanging
And the belief teasing, threatening to relieve each day.
So full up with insides art colliding with
'Rock 'n' roll' hiding through worth trying for
Got-ten posters of poems fucking
Plastered beneath each fingertip, twitching
And drumming whys while 'I',
Continues to sleep.'This Mourning I' can be found within Sam
Rawlings' book of poetry Circle Time, which is currently available from
the Lazy Gramophone Shop. To read more about Circle Time click here.
Title: 'This Mourning I' by Sam Rawlings
Lazy Says: 'This Mourning I' by Sam Rawlings